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Ready in heart and ready in hand,
Maud with her exquisite face,
And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky,
And myself so languid and base.
Silence, beautiful voice,
Be still, for you only trouble the mind
Still! I will hear you no more;
For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice
See the chariot at hand here of Love
Wherein my lady rideth!
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty,
And enamoured do wish so they might
That they still were to run by her side,
Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.
Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Love's world compriseth;
Do but look on her hair, it is bright
Do but mark, her forehead's smoother
And from her arched brows such a grace
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good of the element's strife
Have you seen a bright lily grow,
Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall o' the snow Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of the Beaver?
Or Swan's down ever?
Or have smelt of the bud of the brier?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
FARE THEE WELL.
Fare thee well! and if forever,
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
Would that heart were bared before thee
FARE THEE WELL.
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Though the world for this commend thee,
Still thine own its life retaineth;
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth, Is-that we no more may meet.
These are words of deeper sorrow
When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is pressed,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Think of him thy love had blessed!
Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more mayst see,
Torn from every nearer tie,
Seared in heart, and love, and blighted,— More than this I scarce can die.
IF MINE I COULD BUT CALL THEE.
If mine I could but call thee,
How blest my lot would be!